Defeating the World with the Power of One Dragon!

The Redridge Mountains, located in southern Arotala, resembled scars licked by flames.

From a high-altitude perspective, they appeared rust-red.

Rock formations were fractured, gravel was scattered everywhere, and sparse vegetation curled into withered yellow clumps in the heat.

The few surviving plants were all abnormal colors—their leaves browned, their stems twisted, as if something had wrung them from the inside out during their growth.

The deeper into the mountains, the deeper the red.

It shifted from rust-red to dark red, then to a scorched red nearing black. The air was thick with a burnt metallic smell, which would dry out the throat with each inhale.

An ordinary creature would grow irritable after half a day here, and after a full day, they'd start raging for no reason.

*Swoosh.*

A gray-brown shadow swept across a rocky ridge on the eastern side of the mountains.

A hawk.

Its body was much larger than a normal hawk's, with inconspicuous dark red hues on the edges of its wings. It flew steadily and silently, its wingbeats slower than those of a normal bird.

The hawk arced through the low altitude, its sharp gaze scanning the ravines and rock caves below.

Its head tilted slightly, moving from left to right, then right to left. Each sweep covered a fan-shaped area before it angled its wings, turned toward another ridge, and began searching the next zone.

Garoth had been scouring these mountains for some time.

As for the south, even Cerora's intelligence wasn't entirely accurate—it only marked the approximate activity range of the Rage Beast Lord.

The middle section of the Redridge Mountains.

"Middle section" was a vague concept.

This mountain range stretched endlessly, and its middle span crossed countless peaks.

Inside, ravines crisscrossed, rock caves were dense, and the terrain was incredibly complex—like a piece of bark paper that had been crumpled and then smoothed out again.

There were over a dozen deep valleys capable of hiding a single Rage Beast Lord, not to mention the blind spots where perception was twisted by the frenzied flame's radiation.

There were many rage beasts here.

Nearly every creature inhabiting this place, strong or weak, was infected to varying degrees by the Fury Curse. The weak mutated directly into mindless rage beasts that tore into and devoured each other; the strong occupied areas with higher frenzied flame concentrations, entrenched themselves, and slowly mutated, growing stronger and stronger.

It was a process of layer-by-layer elimination.

The creatures infected by the radiation devoured one another. The victor absorbed the loser's frenzied flame, becoming stronger and more insane. Then, an even more powerful entity would set its sights on it, turning it into nourishment for advancement.

The Redridge Mountains were one massive petri dish.

The Rage Beast Lord was the final product bred in this dish.

Perhaps it was because it was too close to the intact meteorite.

The rage radiation here was abnormal, existing in every breath of air.

The twist was that this mutation somewhat affected Garoth's True Eye.

He could now see the frenzied flame clearly and distinctly, and it stood out prominently in his field of vision.

Normally, it wasn't much of an issue.

In a typical battle environment, the frenzied flame only existed within infected individuals, not causing too much visual interference.

But in this environment, his eyes were filled with burning, surging flames.

It was like the summer heat had condensed into a physical substance, constantly twisting and warping before his eyes.

A thin layer of frenzied flame adhered to every rock surface, and fine sparks floated in the air. In his True Eye's perception, these flames stacked together, forming a curtain that nearly obscured everything, heavily interfering with his senses.

"The dormancy during my breakthrough to crown-level primarily evolved my Furnace Stomach and Abyssal Breath Lungs," Garoth mused inwardly.

"Other traits also changed, especially the enhancement of my Spell-Extinguishing Claws and the alteration of my Dragon Pearl. But the True Eye didn't change much—just a slight boost—and now it's being affected by this mutation."

The True Eye was incredibly useful.

But as he broke through to crown-level, the enemies and environments he faced were also escalating in rank, and now it was falling behind.

"Hmm, I need to pay attention to this."

He mentally noted it down.

It would be a real pity if the True Eye was phased out because it couldn't keep up with his overall evolution, or if it became unusable due to heavy interference from the mutation.

He refocused his mind, centering on the present.

With his vision affected and the need to consider the orcs' presence in the south, he had to finish the fight in one decisive burst. He couldn't force the Rage Beast Lord out by making too much noise, so for now, he had to search and sense one area at a time.

Luckily, Garoth was patient. There was no rush.

*Swoosh.*

Beneath the dark red sky, the hawk beat its wings and continued sweeping through the air.

Meanwhile, the war had officially erupted.

The orc legions advanced north from the southern wastelands, much faster than the Nausil elves had estimated.

According to elven intelligence estimates, the orcs would need at least fifteen to twenty days to gather and launch an assault.

After the war totems of the major tribes were erected, they still needed to summon scattered warriors, have the Shamans complete pre-battle rituals, and prepare supplies and weapons.

But this time, the orcs only took nine days.

They built no camps, constructed no supply lines, and each warrior carried very few provisions.

Their logistics were a disaster.

By any normal military standard, this method of supply couldn't sustain a large-scale war.

But the orcs didn't care.

They were used to living by plunder. Take one place, eat there. If they couldn't take it, they died. Dead orcs didn't need to eat—and they could even become resources themselves.

This savage advance put considerable pressure on Nausil's defenses.

The main battlefield stretched from the western hills to the edge of the eastern forests.

The Nausil Empire had deployed six legions here. Elven arcane archers served as their long-range force, lined up in a row behind the defensive line.

Whenever the orcs charged, countless arrows would rise from the positions.

The arrows arced through the air like a meteor shower, raining down on the orc formations.

The first volley was armor-piercing arrows, designed to punch through shields and heavy armor. The second volley was explosive arrows, with blast runes carved into their arrowheads, detonating on impact. The third volley was poison arrows, their tips coated with venom extracted from Arotala's poison vines—lethal upon contact with blood.

But the orcs didn't care.

A horde of rage beasts charged at the very front.

The orcs had somehow managed to drive some rage beasts to serve as the vanguard for their legions.

These rage beasts were covered in abnormal bone spurs and horny layers, their eyes burning with frenzied flame. They had no reason, felt no fear, and wouldn't stop even with dozens of arrows stuck in them.

The arrows lodged in their bodies like stakes in a moving slab of meat, not slowing their charge in the slightest.

Behind the rage beasts came the berserkers of the Bloodskull tribe.

They were bare-chested, their skin painted with twisted war markings using animal blood and mineral powder.

These markings weren't decorative—they could temporarily stimulate a warrior's vitality, making them ignore pain and fatigue and unlocking more strength.

The berserkers let out a low, continuous roar as they charged, their eyes burning with fervor, unafraid of death.

The orc legions endured the elves' ranged assault, step by step closing in on the defensive line.

But the elves weren't afraid of close combat either.

Many intelligent beings had a misconception, thinking elves were slender, naturally romantic, and bad at close-quarters combat.

This impression came from elven commoners.

They truly enjoyed peaceful lives—poetry, music, walking under the moonlight, decorating their homes with flowers. Most of these elves detested battle, hated getting hurt, and hated bloodshed.

Some even turned pale at the sight of blood, their stomachs churning as they wanted to vomit.

But that was only true for elves who lived tranquil lives.

The elven warriors, clad in silver or golden armor, were mostly proficient in both magic and martial arts, equally capable at range and in melee—truly versatile.

Their combat skills and mental fortitude, honed over long centuries, surpassed those of most orcs.

An elven warrior who had lived for hundreds of years, even if they only participated in a war once every decade, would still have dozens of wars' worth of experience. An orc's average lifespan couldn't compare to an elf's at all.

In one-on-one combat, elves were often stronger than orcs.

However, elves were fewer in number than orcs and valued the lives of their kin.

They couldn't disregard casualties the way orcs did.

Every elven warrior lost was irreversible. Elves pursued romantic love, and most were fiercely loyal to their partners, resulting in low birth rates. Therefore, they treasured their people.

Facing the orcs' fanatical assault, the elves chose a strategy of planned fighting and retreating.

In this way, they wore down the orcs' living forces without suffering too many casualties in a head-on confrontation.

Multiple retreat paths were reserved along the defensive line. Every position had pre-planned second and third lines. When the orcs stormed the first line, the elves had already pulled back to the second line, and the traps buried beneath the first line would then spring into action.

The situation on the flanks was different from the main front.

The defensive sectors of the Greenwild Kingdom and the Giant Kingdom were located on the western side of the main battle zone—a transitional area of low hills and broken valleys.

The terrain here was more complex than on the main front.

Under normal circumstances, elves wouldn't let the Greenwild dragons and giants defend the same region.

They knew there was an ancient racial grudge between dragons and giants.

If they fought together, internal conflicts might arise. The elven staff officers were well aware of this.

But this time, the flank held high strategic value.

If the orcs broke through the flank, they could outflank Nausil from the west, cutting off their retreat routes and supply lines.

The elven legions' tactic of fighting and retreating on the main front relied on a stable flank for support. Once the flank was breached, the entire defensive line would tear apart like cloth ripped open at a seam, splitting along the weave.

So it had to be held.

Nausil's choice was to place the Greenwild dragons and the giants in the same region but strictly separate their defensive zones.

A natural boundary existed between them: Greenwild on the left, giants on the right. Neither side needed to cooperate or communicate; they just had to guard their own areas.

If they got too close, they might start fighting among themselves while supposedly fighting the enemy.

The elven commander deliberately separated them when assigning zones and even stationed an elven supervisory force in between. Nominally, it was for coordinated operations; in reality, it was to prevent the two sides from accidentally starting a war.

The battle on the flank erupted at sunrise.

By noon, it had reached a fever pitch.

Dragons, giants, humans, dwarves... these flank allied forces were engaging the enemy.

The orcs attacking the flank were primarily from the Blackfang tribe.

Among the tribes of Kantum, the Blackfang were renowned for their heavy infantry.

Their warriors wore thick armor made of animal bones and tough hide, wielding two-handed battle-axes or heavy hammers, advancing in dense phalanxes.

Roars, bellows, and the clashing of weapons echoed in waves.

From a high vantage point, the entire transitional zone looked like a pot of boiling water.

Dragons swooped, their dragon breath engulfing a group of Blackfang warriors. When the breath dissipated, only charred skeletons remained. Giant war hammers smashed down, sending orcs flying like gravel. But gaps were quickly filled by orcs from behind.

Krug Blackfang, a crown-level existence, strode across the land woven with blood and flames.

He rampaged across the battlefield.

His body was much taller and bulkier than an ordinary Blackfang warrior. He wore not bone armor, but a set of black heavy armor forged from meteorite iron.

In his hand, he carried a two-handed battle-axe, its blade caked with shredded flesh and bone fragments from who knows how many kills.

"Who can stop me? Haha! Kill!"

The orc threw his head back and roared, his voice brimming with excited satisfaction.

With one swing of his axe, he cleaved through a cluster of human knights, cutting both men and horses in two. Then he charged forward, unstoppable.

Just then, the ground ahead suddenly swelled.

*Boom.*

The earth split open. Dirt and gravel slid off the rising top, revealing a vivid green head beneath, followed by a torso, a long tail, and four thick limbs.

A dragon, woven entirely from vines, stood before Krug.

A crown-level power of the Greenwild Kingdom.

It wasn't a living thing.

Krug's stride didn't pause for an instant.

He knew what this was.

A Vine Dragon of the Greenwild Kingdom, an animated construct monster woven by the Green Queen through special means. Its material was the Dream Oak of the Greenwild Kingdom.

It had no flesh, no pain, no fear.

Striking it with a battle-axe was no different from chopping into a forest.

"A thing made of wood wants to stop me?"

Krug growled lowly, striding forward.

His body swelled as he charged, muscle fibers rolling under his skin like tightened steel cables. He dragged his battle-axe behind him, the blade carving a burning, glowing furrow into the earth.

The Vine Dragon made no sound. It charged to meet the orc.

Countless vines exploded from its torso, each as thick as an orc's waist. They pierced the air with countless sonic booms, blotting out the sky as they came.

The orc roared, his axe sweeping in an arc.

The blood-rage power coating the blade severed vines one after another. He spun his axe like a wall, and no vine could penetrate this defense.

But the moment his vision cleared, a thick, long dragon tail slammed into him.

*Wham!*

The tail crashed into the axe's flat side, which he used like a shield.

The force didn't feel like a plant at all—it was like being struck by a legendary weapon swung by a giant.

Krug was sent flying sideways, pulverizing ordinary warriors who couldn't dodge in time into bloody mist. His body plowed a long furrow across the ground, rocks exploding into clouds of dust beneath him.

When he stood up from the rubble, the Vine Dragon was already upon him.

Its right forelimb was raised, its spread claws like a cage, each claw tip woven from hundreds of vines. Then it slammed down with the momentum to crush the orc into the earth.

Krug raised his axe to block.

*Crack!*

With the crown-level orc at the center, cracks radiated outward in a ring. The soil was shaken and upheaved, gravel and dust spraying in all directions.

The shockwave knocked over all nearby warriors, friend and foe alike.

His knee bent slightly, but he didn't kneel.

The orc's arm muscles bulged, dark blue veins bulging beneath his skin, pushing his physical limits to the max.

The axe's edge bit into the Vine Dragon's palm. Green sap dripped down the axe blade, splashing onto his helmet, releasing nerve-corrupting toxic fumes.

The Vine Dragon looked down at him.

Then, its other forelimb came down too.

Krug was hammered into the ground.

From a distance, it looked like a green mountain had suddenly collapsed, burying some tiny figure beneath it.

The ground continued to sink. Shockwaves pulsed outward in waves, one after another. Nearby warriors had completely abandoned this area. No one wanted to get near the battle range of two crown-level beings.

The Vine Dragon's assault didn't stop.

It began alternating its forelimbs to hammer the orc. Each blow sank the ground a little more. Green sap sprayed continuously from where its claws met Krug's axe, forming a small pool of poison on the earth.

Krug was still alive.

He could endure under this relentless pounding, but he was pinned on the defensive.

On the other side, at the eastern edge of the flank battlefield.

Another crown-level aura exploded.

Another orc crown-level had entered the fray, trying to exploit the moment to tear open the defense line and flank the allied position from the rear.

But he crashed into a wall.

To be precise, a hill giant covered in rune-inscribed armor.

This orc's weapon was a two-handed heavy hammer. When he swung it in a full arc, the air was compressed into a visible white ring that exploded outward. Ordinary warriors standing within the shockwave's range would have their eardrums burst from the vibration.

The rune giant raised its arm, absorbing the blow with the plates on its forearm.

The heavy hammer left a dent and a few cracks in the rune armor before bouncing off.

*Bang! Bang!*

The two clashed fiercely.

The orc's heavy hammer fell like a storm, each blow carrying crown-level force. But the rune giant simply stood there, like a remaining vein of a mountain range spanning the battlefield, silently blocking every inch of the orc crown-level's advance.

Notably, this hill giant was only a high-level Legendary.

Its aura was far weaker than its crown-level opponent.

But relying on a suit of battle armor engraved with special runes, it actually had the orc on the defensive.

Few intelligent beings knew that giants weren't just about strength—they also produced many great minds among them.

At the same time, they were masters of arcane runes.

During the giants' golden age, rune technology was the core of their race.

They carved runes on weapons, on armor, on buildings, and even on their own skin.

This was a special type of rune, different from magical runes. Each rune was a miniature energy circuit, capable of absorbing, converting, and releasing power.

A complete set of rune battle armor was equivalent to stacking dozens of layers of various enhancements on the wearer.

This was also why they were able to establish themselves on the Thalassian Continent back then.

Giant rune technology reached its peak. The rune array on the Pillar of Cloud Peaks could change the weather, regulating the climate across the entire Giant Kingdom.

However, after the orc legions breached the Pillar of Cloud Peaks, a vast number of giant rune armors were lost.

Rune craftsmen, who took centuries to train, and a wealth of technology were all destroyed in that war. A corresponding amount of knowledge was also ruined. The giants here had very few rune equipment pieces left.

The armor worn by this hill giant was one of the few remaining complete works.

The crown-level battlefront reached a stalemate.

Or rather, the orcs were on the losing end.

Krug was suppressed by the Vine Dragon. The orc crown-level trying to break through at the eastern edge was blocked by the rune giant.

Neither main breakthrough point had opened.

But the situation at the mid and low levels was a different story.

Legendary-rank clashes were happening in all directions.

Dragon breath plowed charred furrows through the orc ranks.

The Green Dragon's breath landed in the middle of a Blackfang heavy infantry unit. Armor melted in the acid, skin blistered and ulcerated, and warriors fell screaming.

Giant iron clubs shattered shields and skulls. Each swing flattened several orcs into meat paste.

Human knight lances pierced the throats of armored rage beasts. Warhorses trampled through the orc ranks, their horseshoes caked with minced flesh and mud.

Dwarf war hammers struck orc shins with a muffled forging sound. These short warriors specialized in attacking the orcs' lower body.

One blow shattering a knee; once the orc fell, a second blow to the temple finished it.

But the orcs were still advancing.

Every row that fell was replaced by the next row, stepping over their kinsmen's corpses.

The allied resistance was fierce, but it was being dismantled inch by inch.

Their discipline couldn't match that of the elven regulars. The elven legions' formations shifted as smoothly as flowing water, switching from attack to defense to retreat in the span of a few breaths.

The orcs couldn't do that. They only knew one tactic.

Forward.

This reckless disregard for casualties was itself a weapon.

On the battlefields of ordinary and high-level Legendaries, the orcs also held the advantage.

The Blackfang tribe had more Legendary warriors than the allied forces, and their Legendaries weren't afraid of getting hurt.

An allied Legendary would think about their escape route in combat, consider how to retreat after being wounded. The orc Legendaries didn't think about any of that—they fought until they died.

Until, high in the sky, the outcome was decided.

The clash of Mandate of Heaven-level beings was beyond most soldiers' perception.

They could only sense the clouds at extreme altitude constantly shattering, and an occasional sliver of overwhelming aura leaking down, enough to send chills down their spines.

The Green Queen and the Scarlet King had joined forces against the orc's Mandate of Heaven-level being.

The Scarlet King was one of the Giant King's titles.

Beings of this level had basically mastered their own nature.

For Mandate of Heaven-level powerhouses, the line between reason and instinct had already blurred. They could briefly fight together, suppressing their innate mutual repulsion and distrust.

It wasn't trust; it was necessity.

Among them, the Giant King fought head-on.

His physique and strength were most suited for direct confrontation. He crashed into the orc Mandate of Heaven like a burning meteor, each collision shaking the sky.

The Green Queen, meanwhile, prowled the periphery, providing support when appropriate.

"Sooner or later, Haldurn will become a threat. Should I take this opportunity to ambush him?"

As their forms crossed paths, the Green Dragon stared at the Giant King's back, deliberating inwardly.

This thought wasn't her first.

The Giant King seemed to have never considered the possibility of the Green Dragon betraying him.

He was locked in fierce combat with the orc Mandate of Heaven, the entire sky dyed red by the flames around him.

Fire erupted from beneath his skin, forming a fiery ring hundreds of meters in diameter around his body. Every attack the orc Mandate of Heaven landed on him sent sparks flying everywhere.

He was fighting with total abandon.

At least, that's how it looked on the surface.

The Green Dragon thought it over, then abandoned the idea.

Not because of any principle or bottom line.

As a Green Dragon, what she loved most was ambushing an enemy when they least expected it.

This was the nature of Green Dragons—using the easiest method to deal with the most troublesome enemies. Head-on confrontation was never a Green Dragon's first choice. Schemes, traps, psychological warfare—these were their true specialties.

The problem was that Cerola didn't do things without certainty.

To be fair, her level-up speed was very fast.

From an ordinary Green Dragon to crown-level, she had taken far less time than most dragons. She was also stronger than many of her peers.

But this strength was relative.

Compared to individuals like Haldurn and Garoth, she had her own advantages, but in a direct fight, she was significantly weaker.

Even a backstab against the Giant King would be hard to kill him outright.

His body was just too powerful.

Besides, the elves wouldn't sit idly by and let the two major allies turn on each other.

Not worth it.

The Green Dragon stopped thinking about it and focused on the fight at hand.

The ground troops couldn't see the specifics.

All they could see was the clouds constantly shattering and the sky's colors shifting endlessly. Sometimes it was crimson, sometimes emerald, sometimes the gray-black energy of the orc Mandate of Heaven exploding.

The auras intertwined, like invisible giant beasts tearing into each other above the clouds.

The ground battle was equally brutal. Every warrior fought for their survival. Legendaries clashed on their respective battlefields. Ordinary soldiers pushed and shoved between shield walls and lines.

Time slipped away amid the war.

The sun shifted from noon toward the west, shadows lengthening from west to east. The smoke permeating the battlefield took on a dirty orange hue in the sunset, somewhat resembling the rust-red of the Redridge Mountains.

The result came down as the sun tilted westward.

The orc Mandate of Heaven fell from the clouds.

His body crashed like a meteor into a hill on the western side of the battlefield, pulverizing the entire hilltop into rubble. The shockwave uprooted surrounding trees, spraying soil and rock in all directions like rain.

He wasn't dead yet.

The orc stood up from the rubble pile, with a clear depression in his chest and who knows how many broken ribs.

That said it all.

He could still fight, but he could no longer turn the tide. If he continued, he might very well be killed here by the Giant King and the Green Queen together.

The orc Mandate of Heaven stood from the rubble, fury burning in his eyes, but a trace of reason remained.

He swept a grim gaze over his two opponents, then let out a low roar.

It was a signal to retreat.

The Mandate of Heaven's command brought even the most hot-blooded orcs back to some semblance of clarity.

Their assault receded like a tide.

The berserkers covering the rear showed no fear of the pursuing allied forces. Some even grinned, yelling out excitedly, happy that they could keep fighting.

Covering the rear meant more fighting, and more fighting meant more glory.

They brandished their axes and charged at the pursuing allied forces, buying time for their comrades to retreat.

"Brave warriors of Greenwild, hold the line!"

Cerola's cold, clear voice rang out.

The Greenwild dragons and other followers and claws stopped their pursuit.

The giants and other races stopped as well.

Their flank position was amplified by a pre-set arcane formation from Nausil, covering the entire flank defensive zone.

Within the formation's range, allied magic recovery speed increased, and defensive power was enhanced.

Leaving this range would weaken everyone. The elves designed it this way to strengthen defense on one hand, and on the other, to prevent allied forces from chasing out of their positions recklessly.

Their duty was to hold the line, not to show off by killing the enemy.

Besides, the orcs were only temporarily retreating.

After a brief rest, they would be back.

This was just today's first wave. Following orc combat habits, they would launch a second attack at night or at dawn on some coming day.

The war was far from over.

Once silence fell, the smell of smoke and blood grew even stronger.

Giant King Haldurn stood on a high point on the western side of the battlefield.

His size was unmatched. Not even dragons could compare.

Standing there, he looked like a majestic, heavy mountain, his red hair dancing wildly in the wind.

His gaze flickered as he looked toward the Green Dragon Queen on the other side, then he moved closer.

"It's an honor to fight alongside you, Queen of Greenwild," he said.

The Green Dragon Queen tilted her head slightly, not responding, merely dipping her chin.

She didn't want to talk.

The Giant King fell silent.

The heavy footsteps of soldiers collecting the dead echoed across the battlefield. In the distance, someone was shouting in Dwarvish—probably a dwarf warrior counting their tribe's casualties. Further off, an injured rage beast let out a dying howl, its voice shrill.

Cerola spread her wings, preparing to leave.

Haldurn spoke again.

"My bloodline is half dragon."

"My dragon bloodline comes from my mother—she was a red dragon."

"So I don't hold the deep-seated hostility toward dragons that traditional giants do. I don't even have any prejudice. I grew up caught between two bloodlines. I know what dragons are like, and I know what giants are like."

"I can understand the hatred on both sides, but I don't fully agree with it either."

The Green Dragon Queen's slit pupils narrowed, her gaze fixed on the Giant King.

"Haldurn, don't waste either of our time," she said coldly. "You have dragon blood, but I have no giant blood. I find your pursuit disgusting. Being pursued by a giant is unpleasant in itself."

"Besides, I don't think you're really trying to court me. You have another motive."

"Stop pretending. It's disrespectful to rulers like us."

The Giant King thought for a moment, then slowly nodded.

His expression didn't change. He spoke bluntly.

"Yes. I need your power."

"My dormant period is approaching."

"It's too long for this war. If I fall into dormancy, the Giant Kingdom will lose its king. The allied forces will lose a Mandate of Heaven-level combatant. And the orcs won't wait for me to wake up."

"So I need to break through to the next level—as fast as possible."

His gaze locked onto the Green Dragon Queen.

"I know you have a talent for shortening dormancy periods. I'm willing to pay any price for your help."

He was completely honest, laying the transaction out on the table.

The wind on the battlefield blew in from the western hills, carrying ash and the smell of blood, brushing against the Green Dragon Queen's scales.

"No."

She spat out a single word, leaving no room for negotiation.

The Giant King didn't ask why.

His eyes dimmed, and he simply nodded, as if he had expected this outcome. From the moment he spoke his true purpose, he probably already knew the answer.

At the same time, the Green Dragon Queen spread her wings and soared into the air.

The instant her wings were fully extended, the wind pressure created a shallow crater on the ground, rolling gravel away in all directions.

The battle was paused. The allied forces hurried to rest and reorganize.

The wounded were carried to the rear medical area.

Those skilled in healing arts moved among the injured, treating wounds with magic and medicine. Dwarf craftsmen repaired damaged weapons and armor, the clanging of hammers echoing from all corners of the camp. Human soldiers distributed hot meals—the first hot food they'd had all day.

The giants were the same.

Their tents were open-air, with no roof.

It was Haldurn's habit.

He didn't like having anything covering his head, not even a layer of canvas.

Before the Pillar of Cloud Peaks fell, most giant buildings were also open-air. They loved the feeling of having the sky above them.

Haldurn continued this tradition, even during military campaigns.

The tent's walls were made of rough logs and animal hides, tall enough for Haldurn to stand upright.

A bonfire burned in the center, its light casting shadows on the tent walls.

Haldurn sat by the fire, one leg bent, forearm resting on his knee, staring at the flames.

He had changed into a coarse linen shirt, its collar open, revealing old scars on his chest.

The tent flap was lifted.

Storm Giant Solarton stooped and entered.

His build was much smaller than Haldurn's, but still imposing among giants. His face bore the fatigue of a patrol along the front lines, and the shoulder straps of his armor were stained with orc blood that hadn't dried yet.

He walked to the opposite side of the fire and spoke eagerly before even sitting down.

"My King, how did it go with the Green Queen?"

Haldurn didn't look up. "She refused."

A damp piece of wood in the bonfire cracked, sending sparks flying. They flickered in the air for a moment before disappearing.

Solarton was silent for a moment, then sat down.

"So that was the last attempt? No other room for negotiation?" he asked.

"Mm," Haldurn nodded.

The Storm Giant didn't show disappointment.

On the contrary, his eyes lit up.

"Heh, I happen to have an idea."

Haldurn raised his eyelids to glance at him. "Let's hear it."

Solarton leaned forward.

The firelight caught his chin, casting two deep dark shadows in his eye sockets, making his expression look much more sinister than usual.

"The orcs won't back down. Today's wave was just a probe. When their assault is at its fiercest..."

"The Greenwild Kingdom's line will be under the most pressure. That Vine Dragon will be torn apart. The Green Queen will be distracted during the Mandate of Heaven-level clash and will likely be wounded."

"Meanwhile, our giant line can gradually move around to the Greenwild rear."

"After repelling the orcs, the entire army will let its guard down. Everyone will be exhausted."

"At that moment, we strike. We ambush the Green Queen and capture her alive. Kill all her followers and claws—those dragons and dragon-blooded, not a single one can be spared, all must be silenced. The other kingdoms are as weak as mud. Kill all witnesses. Leave no one alive."

"Then frame everything on the orcs."

"The orcs broke through the flank. The Greenwild Kingdom was wiped out. The Green Queen died in battle. We giants fought desperately, eventually repelling the orcs and retaking the position. Even if the Nausil elves suspect something, they'll have no evidence."

"In wartime, anything can happen."

Wind from outside poured through the top of the tent, pressing the bonfire low for a moment before it flared up again, burning even brighter than before.

After Solarton finished, he stared at Haldurn, waiting for his reaction.

Under his expectant gaze, Haldurn slowly shook his head.

"Solarton, my blood brother."

"Backstabbing, turning coat in the heat of battle... I disdain doing such vile things."

Haldurn's tone held no anger, nor was it reprimanding.

He spoke unhurriedly: "During my struggles on Thalassia, I played dirty tricks more than once. That place wasn't one for honor."

"But that was forced—it was mud I had to get my hands dirty in while crawling out of the gutter."

"At that time, I was just a giant in exile, with no kingdom, no power. To survive and reclaim what was mine, I had to use any means necessary."

He raised his gaze from the fire to Solarton's face.

"I haven't done that since. You know that well."

"Relying solely on schemes will never achieve anything, nor will it make a king. I've seen too many who rose through intrigue, only to die by it."

"Backstabbing, ambushing, framing—none of these are what a king should do."

"I, Haldurn, am the sovereign born to save the giants' fate. What I want, I will obtain through strength."

His gaze returned to the bonfire.

"Solving straightforward problems with straightforward methods—that is the way of a king."

The tent was quiet for a moment.

Then Solarton suddenly broke into a grin. His smile looked simple and honest, his eyebrows pressing down, crow's feet forming at the corners of his eyes.

"That's the spirit of a true king," he nodded vigorously, praising. "I was just saying, His Majesty isn't that kind of person. I'm too despicable—how could a firefly understand the thoughts of the blazing sun?"

Haldurn shot him a glance.

"Stop pretending to be stupid in front of me."

"You know exactly what kind of person I am. You don't need to use words like that to prop me up."

Solarton's expression didn't change.

He raised his hand, scratched the back of his head, and asked with a chuckle: "My King, how do you plan to solve this now? Cerola still has the Scarlet Emperor Cangxing backing her."

Haldurn thought for a moment, then spoke slowly.

"Simple. I'll solve the problem using the ancient traditions of the giant race."

Solarton nodded in agreement, clearly knowing what ancient tradition Haldurn was referring to.

"During this time, the Nausil elves will bear witness for me. They will witness my strength and power, witness how I obtain what I need in the manner befitting a king."

The bonfire crackled.

Sparks rose, only to be scattered by the wind blowing into the tent, vanishing into the night.

In the distance, from the direction of the flank position, the low sound of a shift-change horn rang out.

Orc campfires lay further south, near and far, like a scattering of stars fallen to earth. Their number was greater than yesterday. Reinforcements continued to arrive.

On the other side.

The Greenwild camp.

The green dragon Amilia had noticed the earlier scene.

She walked toward the queen and asked, "Sister, what did the Giant King say to you?"

The Green Queen lifted her head slightly, her gaze sharp.

"Pretty much what I expected. An existence like him wouldn't be immersed in ridiculous feelings. He just wanted my power, to prepare for breaking through to Mandate of Heaven."

"'Ridiculous feelings'..."

Amilia muttered to herself.

Sister, you're not exactly in a position to say that.

She didn't say it aloud.

Some things were fine to think about, but saying them would get you beaten.

"So we've burned that bridge with the Giant King now?" she changed the subject. "Maybe they're thinking about how to stab us in the back. Should we strike first and use this war to harm them instead?"

Green Dragons were masters of playing dirty tricks.

In the chaos of battle, pulling some underhanded moves on the giants was as easy as breathing.

No need for elaborate planning—just improvise.

Cerola thought briefly, then said, "Ordinary giants are easy to handle, but Haldurn isn't easy to deal with."

"As long as this Giant King is still alive, harming other giants doesn't accomplish much. It would only make him have no more scruples."

Amilia thought about it and found it reasonable.

She then proposed another idea: "Sister, you could pretend to agree to his request."

"First, get some good stuff from him through the transaction. Haldurn gathered a large number of giant survivors. He's definitely still hiding some good things."

"Then put the Giant King into a dream and deal with him in your own domain."

Cerola shook her head slightly.

"The Dream World is my home turf."

"As long as I can get the Giant King to lower his guard, I'm confident I can make him never wake up. But that prerequisite is very hard to achieve."

"Acting rashly will only lead to mutual destruction."

"I might trap him, or he might trap me. The risk is fifty-fifty. Not worth it."

Amilia was stumped, tilting her head in thought.

But then, as if something occurred to her, her eyes suddenly lit up.

"Oh, what's the big deal?"

The green dragon swayed her head, grinning: "I almost forgot—thanks to your charm, sister, Greenwild now has a powerful ally."

"No matter how strong this Giant King is, can he possibly stand against both you and the Scarlet Emperor Cangxing together?"

Cerola didn't pick up that thread. She just looked up at the night sky.

In the sky, the twin moons hung high.

Their light fell on the camp, on the battlefield, on the bodies that hadn't been collected yet.

At the same time.

Southern Arotala, the Redridge Mountains.

Night had also fallen over this cursed land.

"There you are."

The hawk circled in the night, its sharp gaze sweeping over an unremarkable mountain.

With his visual perception distorted by the frenzied flame and needing to be cautious of the orcs, Garoth had to rely mainly on his physical eyes to search for the Rage Beast Lord and the meteorite.

It was inefficient.

And this Rage Beast Lord seemed to be in dormancy—its form was nowhere to be seen.

Luckily, his mutated eyes had their uses.

While being seared by the frenzied flame, he gradually became able to see its flow and some subtle changes.

Countless tiny trails of frenzied flame, like countless thin streams, eventually converged into a single river. He had followed these trails one by one, tracing them back, and finally found this place.

In normal vision, it was utterly unremarkable.

An ordinary peak, slightly taller than the surrounding mountains, but nothing special. It was covered in sparse, withered yellow vegetation. There were a few rock caves on the mountainside, half-hidden by gravel.

In frenzied flame vision, through the flow of countless flame trails, Garoth could see a prominent red glow resting quietly deep beneath the mountain.

The source of all frenzied flame radiation in the Redridge Mountains was right here.

"Lucky break. Should be a quick fight."

Garoth grinned.

Dormancy?

Perfect. He loved fighting stationary targets the most.

Atlan had already taken a few of his Dragon Emperor Interdimensions.

Couldn't play favorites.

Arotala should get a taste too.

As for the intact meteorite, according to reliable intel, this Mandate of Heaven-level Rage Beast Lord would swallow it as a power source, so it wasn't afraid of being shattered.

*Swoosh.*

The hawk's wings beat as it shot straight into the sky.

Its form swelled rapidly in the moonlight, going from hawk-size to dragon-size in just a few breaths.

Dragon wings unfurled, blotting out the starlight.

The red iron dragon's full form materialized, its scales glinting with cold metallic luster in the night.

The next moment, qi surged from the gaps between scales. A second pair of arm-claws burst from its body, followed by a third pair, then two more fierce, vicious heads.

Garoth activated his Three Heads, Six Arms state instantly.

Not only that, he began his Explosive Qi.

Golden qi burst from beneath his scales, like liquid flame flowing along his six arms and claws.

The qi flowed over his forearms, over his elbows, over his claws, condensing into dazzling points of light at his claw tips. Then it surged upward and outward, enveloping the entire dragon.

From a distance, it looked like a golden sun had suddenly lit up in the night sky.

Then, his six arms clasped together before his chest.

Palm to palm, qi converged toward the center, compressing.

The shape of a dragonqi bomb formed between his six claws. At first, it was only the size of a fist. Then it swelled to head-size, then to millstone-size, then to house-size... Each expansion was accompanied by violent surges of qi.

The gold grew denser, brighter.

The red iron dragon's three heads simultaneously exhaled dragon breath, channeling it into the dragonqi bomb.

The bomb's volume began to shrink instead, shrinking to head-size, then to fist-size, then expanding again. It cycled through this process repeatedly, each contraction and expansion doubling the energy density.

The golden light gradually turned into a blinding white.

It was like a star being forcibly held down, ready to erupt at any moment.

The rage beasts within the Redridge Mountains sensed something.

Countless bloodshot eyes lit up from rock caves, ravines, and under gravel. Their instincts told them death was coming.

Then they began to flee.

The rage beasts burst from their hiding spots, scurrying in all directions like ants on a hot pan.

*Boom, boom, boom.*

The mountain below also began to tremble.

The seemingly ordinary peak let out a dull rumble from within, as if some massive creature was turning over. The mountain itself started to crack. Fissures spread from the mountainside to the summit, and rocks tumbled down from the cracks.

The Rage Beast Lord had been awakened.

But it was too late.

The red iron dragon pushed forward with all six arms.

The dragonqi bomb broke free of the six claws' grip and began to descend.

Its falling trajectory wasn't fast—in fact, it looked slow.

But this was a false perception created by space tearing apart.

It seemed slow but was fast.

By the time the eyes saw it still in midair, it had already landed on the mountain.

Space shattered.

It fragmented and flew outward in all directions like broken glass, exposing the pitch-black void beyond. The void was then filled with qi.

The dragonqi bomb detonated.

Light and qi intertwined, forming a sphere of light connecting heaven and earth, black and white interwoven.

The outermost white light swallowed everything.

Peaks, ravines, fleeing rage beasts, withered vegetation—all dissolved like ink entering water in the light.

Then came the shockwave. A ring-shaped wave of air, centered on the point of impact, flattened the terrain outward. Rock was directly vaporized by the high-temperature air current.

Where the air wave passed, layer after layer of the ground was shaved away. The mountain topography was completely altered within seconds.

A massive gap appeared in the middle of the Redridge Mountains. The originally continuous mountain range looked like something had taken a bite out of it, leaving a smooth cross-section.

The intact peaks were no more.

In their place was a terrifying, massive collapsed sinkhole.

The walls of the pit were as smooth as mirrors—a glass-like substance formed when instant high heat melted and then cooled the rock. At the center, aside from dense spatial fissures, nothing was standing.

Except for the Rage Beast Lord.

Its original form was unrecognizable now.

By this point, its flesh had almost completely vaporized, leaving only a skeleton.

The skeleton was black. Dark red light seeped from the seams of the bones. The joints were connected by dark red energy threads, like a giant specimen strung together with red thread. Embedded in its chest was a meteorite.

"Still alive?"

The red iron dragon blinked in surprise.

A direct hit from his full-power dragonqi bomb—even he himself couldn't withstand that.

An ordinary Mandate of Heaven-level being should have been blown to ashes.

This Rage Beast Lord's vitality was truly tenacious.

At the same time.

Countless blood threads burst from the meteorite's surface.

They sprayed out from the cracks in the meteorite, spreading along the skeleton like countless red worms crawling over black bone.

Wherever they passed, new muscle fibers, fascia, and blood vessels were generated from nothing.

The muscle fibers layered over the bones, one sheet at a time, changing from deep red to dark red, then to the red of fresh flesh. Fascia, like white netting, wrapped around the muscles, binding the differently oriented fibers together.

It was like someone was pasting pieces of flesh onto the skeleton.

The Rage Beast Lord's chest cavity began to take shape again, its abdominal cavity closed, and the muscles of its limbs swelled back up.

This was the Mandate of Heaven-level rage beast's Superspeed Regeneration.

But Garoth didn't give it a chance.

His six arms pulled in, his dragon wings folded.

He plunged from high altitude like a red-gold meteor. Sonic booms exploded behind him, rings of white spreading outward in all directions. His qi dragged a tail across the night sky, from sky to crater floor, as straight as a knife cut.

A layer of flesh had covered the Rage Beast Lord's skull.

But Garoth was already before it.

A claw shot out.

The red iron dragon's right foreclaw stabbed toward the Rage Beast Lord's chest. The claw tips pierced through the regenerating flesh, sinking deep into its chest cavity.

His claws closed, gripping the surface of the meteorite.

The meteorite's temperature was extremely high. Frenzied flame surged out of it, spreading up along his claws in an attempt to erode his flesh and will.

Garoth ignored this. He pulled hard.

The moment the meteorite was torn from its chest, the Rage Beast Lord's entire body stiffened.

Its skeleton collapsed outward from the chest, its joints falling apart one by one, hitting the vitrified ground with crisp clattering sounds.

The newly formed flesh, lacking skeletal support, slid off the bones like melting wax.

Garoth gripped the meteorite in his claws.

By now, space was still chaotic.

The residual effects of the dragonqi bomb hadn't dissipated. Countless spatial cracks continued to spread outward like a spiderweb hanging around them, their edges shimmering with a dark, gloomy luster.

This was a window of opportunity.

The spatial chaos caused by the dragonqi bomb could mask spatial trajectories.

The dense cracks were like countless distorted mirrors. Any method of tracking through spatial fluctuations would be interfered with and misled by them.

But it wouldn't last long.

The spatial cracks were visibly healing.

The smallest cracks had already started to disappear. The edges of medium-sized cracks were closing. Even the largest few were shrinking.

Garoth didn't have time to admire the destruction he'd caused.

This commotion was considerable—it would certainly attract some attention.

He stowed the meteorite, and his six arm-claws reached out simultaneously, gripping the space before him.

The Spell-Extinguishing Claws' ability to tear space was pushed to its limit at this moment. Cracks formed beneath his claws, widening into a portal large enough for his entire body to pass through.

Garoth dove through without hesitation. The rift closed behind him.

Not long after.

A figure stepped out from the southern night sky.

An orc.

His build wasn't exaggerated. He was a bit taller than an average orc, but that was it. Among orcs, his frame was even somewhat lean, his muscle lines long and compact, as if forged and reforged countless times into fine steel.

His skin was a deep brown. His bare upper body bore no war markings or decorations.

Among orcs, his features were considered dignified, even bearing a kind of rough, striking handsomeness—high cheekbones, strong jawline, prominent brow ridges casting deep shadows over his eyes.

Standing at the edge of the collapse pit, the orc looked down at the pile of weathering broken bones at the bottom.

He raised a hand and grasped at the air before him.

Residual spatial fluctuations slipped through his fingers, like water, like smoke.

He couldn't grasp them.

Nor could he discern the direction.

Compared to time, those who mastered spatial skills were more numerous.

Beings who could interfere with time were few and far between. Space was relatively easier—at least, among those above Legendary rank, many powerhouses had dabbled in spatial abilities to some extent.

But that, too, required the corresponding talent.

Not everyone could master it.

This orc was powerful—one of Kantum's demigods. However, he had little training in space.

Amidst the dense web of spatial fissures, he couldn't trace the target. Those cobweb-like cracks were just a tangled mess in his eyes.

"The sacrifice prepared for Our God... has been destroyed."

The orc demigod withdrew his hand, fury roiling in his eyes.

The Rage Beast Lord had been allowed to grow to Mandate of Heaven level in the south. It was intentional on the orcs' part. According to the original plan, once it woke up again, a bit stronger and fatter, the orcs would sacrifice it to their deity in exchange for even greater power.

But that plan had been interrupted.

The orc's fury surged, uncontrollable. His gaze swept over the elves' moon of Nausil. He let out a cold snort, then turned and vanished from this place.

The night in the south gradually returned to silence.

However, the northern night sky was suddenly torn open. The orc demigod descended there, engaging in fierce combat with the elven immortal within the main battle zone. The commotion of heaven and earth cracking continued unabated throughout the night.